


The New Face of Failure

by elle_dritch



Category: Angel: the Series, Bandom
Genre: A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More "Touch Me" (Video), Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, evil lawyers, threats of improbable violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8645101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_dritch/pseuds/elle_dritch
Summary: The A Little Less Sixteen Candles/Angel the Series crossover, in which Ryan left Las Vegas at eighteen; Spencer became a lawyer; timeframes are buggered beyond belief; horrific threats are made; knowledge gleaned from Wikipedia and viewings of Perry Mason is horribly misused; and William Beckett is a bowler-hatted advert for seduction. Some things never change.





	

It's ten at night in Chicago, and Spencer is just about to call it a day and head back to a penthouse apartment currently empty of everything except fifteen still-unpacked removal boxes, two bottles of Cristal, and a jar of peanut butter, when the call comes through from the head office. He may be one of the youngest attorneys to ever make junior partner, but the operative word in that phrase is junior, and if the Senior Partners want you to take on a case as a "personal favour", then you accept the case with your lips already attached to whatever appendage they present for veneration. Spencer smothers that thought newborn with the ease of long practice. The Chicago branch of Wolfram and Hart might not have an embedded telepath yet, but Spencer knows that every one of his staff is eager to knife him in the back. Literally, for preference. He's only been heading up the Chicago office for a few months, but Spencer knows his staff hate him. He doesn't much care. He's with Caligula on this one: let them hate, so long as they fear. And they **do** fear. For all their breezy, barbed comments and muttered insinuations, they can't quite make their eyes meet his. Even his secretary who's been with the company for over ten years, and has the scars to prove it, tends to let her gaze slide away whenever Spencer looks directly at her. Of course, they're all provincials; small-time satellite staff. Spencer allows himself a brief sneer before he consciously smooths out his expression. (When he hits twenty-five years with the company, the perpetuity clause kicks in, and he's damned if he's going to spend eternity looking wrinkled and jowly.) Not one of his staff have even been to the Los Angeles branch; Spencer made his name there. Even surviving the crucible of the L.A office is a feat, emerging from it as a junior partner in just three years makes you a legend in the making, transmuted from mere mortal into a lawyer.

"-And so I expect you to extend every courtesy to our valued client," the Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions tells him over the phone. " _Every_ courtesy, Smith. The Senior Partners have a vested interest in this account, so try not to fuck it up. The Review is coming around in two years time, and if you make me look bad, I'll have every member of your family lobotomised and used as hand-puppets at my kid's birthday party. I honestly don't think I could make myself any clearer, do you, Mr Smith?"

"Not without diagrams, sir," Spencer agrees, coldly. "I don't think I've ever given you a reason to doubt my competence before, have I?"

"No," says Vernon. "No, your competence is well above average, otherwise you'd be mulch by now and not heading up one of our more crucial U.S offices. No, what worries me, Smith, is your poise and rationality. Chicago is at a delicate stage, and its current - ah - civic authorities are passionate about their city and its future; I wouldn't like them to be given the impression that you weren't partisan about it as well. I suggest a less reserved attitude than you normally favour. Do you understand?"

Spencer would have smiled if he remembered how. "You want me to fake an orgasm for Chicago."

"If you can manage that." Vernon's voice is arctic, now. "If I hadn't seen the results from your annual medical, I wouldn't believe that you were still breathing."

"Only cold and dead on the inside, sir," says Spencer, blandly, but he's pissed. His self-possession is notorious within the company, and has been a blessi- a goddamn boon to Wolfram and Hart since he started work for them. He knew, he fucking _knew_ , that Vernon hadn't wanted him promoted over the VP's golden-child nephew. Spencer snorts internally. The moron nephew is in Accounting. The only way he'll get ahead is if a colleague gets decapitated next to him.

"And watch your smart fucking mouth as well, Smith," Vernon snaps from his comfortable, teak-panelled office overlooking Los Angeles.

"Yes, sir," Spencer says, and decides that if _he_ ever gets the chance to lock people in a wine cellar with psychotic vampires, Vernon is top of the fucking list. "I'm sorry; that was an ill-advised attempt at humour. Let me assure you that everything will proceed as smoothly on this end as you or I could hope. I don't anticipate any surprises."

* * *

 

Chicago's civic representative arrives the next night, and he brings a - Well, Spencer isn't sure whether to describe it as an entourage or a dance troupe from what he can see on the lobby's security feed. Whatever it is, it's extensive, a solid wall of figures around the slender figure that had sauntered into the lobby, bowler hat tipped down over its eyes and cane in hand, to establish his appointment and his authority. Spencer settles back thoughtfully behind the mahogany expanse of the boardroom table and he's almost tempted to laugh, until the closed circuit camera catches the flash of light off watchful eyes, and the oily gleam of a handgun tucked into the back of a pair of obscenely tight dress pants. His client's minions may be dressed like vaudeville hoboes, but they're clearly the inner circle, the special forces for the new administration. He hears his secretary's voice advancing down the hall as she escorts the clients to the boardroom, nervous, overly-loud; he'll have to reprimand her for that tomorrow, he thinks distantly, and then he straightens his tie and steps out from behind his desk to greet Chicago's new de facto ruler.

"Welcome to Wolfram and Hart, sir. I'm your attorney, Spencer Smith; it's a pleasure to meet you."

He has to look up slightly to meet his client's gaze, which gleams wickedly as he smiles at Spencer, fangs glinting in the office lighting.

"Oh, I'm almost certain the pleasure will be mine, Spencer," says William Beckett, Prince of Chicago.

* * *

There's a brief flurry of activity as everyone settles in. Beckett stands, preternaturally still but dangerous, like the eye of a hurricane as his minions circle him, checking angles and sightlines suspiciously before they allow that it's safe for him to sit down. Spencer would roll his eyes at the waste of time - seriously, like Wolfram and Hart would allow one of their accounts to get whacked in their offices? Not only is it bad for business, but the Health and Safety protocols would have to be reworked, and who has the fucking time? - but he thinks a gesture like that might be a little too obtuse. He works out his irritation by waiting until one of the younger attorneys, the one who's been the least diplomatic about his burning desire for Spencer's job, is leaning politely over Beckett's shoulder with a folder of documents before he says maliciously, "Can I offer you a drink, Mr Beckett?"

Beckett's eyes cut from the jack-rabbiting pulse in Drury's neck to Spencer, and an amused smile curls the corner of his beautiful mouth. "How kind," he says, inclining his head gravely. "And how very tempting an offer, Mr Smith. But I prefer something a little less - aggressively aromatic."

"Some tea, then," Spencer says, and gestures for the sweating Drury to see to it. William Beckett watches him thoughtfully; Spencer gives him a professional smile and tells him, "I've looked over your case, sir, and I'm happy to say I've identified several strategies that may prove effective. However, just to be absolutely sure we're on the same page here, why don't you tell me what you want to achieve in this transaction so there are no misunderstandings."

"Of course," says Beckett, and crosses one ridiculously long leg elegantly over the other. "Good communication is the key to success. You'll know from the brief that since I took office, in a manner of speaking, I've endeavoured to reach out to the people of Chicago; to show them how, working together, we can heal our fair city of its divisions and petty conflicts. Unfortunately my message just isn't reaching a rather raucous element. Opposition to my adminstration has been minimal but -" he spreads his hands wide and smiles deprecatingly in tolerant disapproval, "socially disruptive."

Spencer notes distantly that even with the sharp, ivory fangs exposed, Beckett still manages to look adorably bewildered at his opponents' recalcitrance, more like a confused kitten than a calculating killer. Dangerous, thinks Spencer, that projection of fragility and appeal, but he's never been taken in by things that need worship; things that need taking care of, on the other hand- He cuts off that line of thought ruthlessly. Beckett is leaning forward and watching him intently while he spins a sad, sad story of how he's tried to do his best for the city, encouraging co-operation and community, but that this tiny vocal element who are unruly, yes, but ultimately, he feels sure, merely misguided- If they would only listen to him, they might understand that he wants them to belong, he wants everybody to belong, and he'd welcome them back like the prodigal son- Spencer can feel a headache building, ratcheting up the tension at the base of his skull. He swallows dryly, and wishes they'd lower the damn heat in this building; it's making him feel ill.

Rubbing at the crease forming between his eyebrows, he's surprised to hear himself say, abruptly, "Forgive me, but I understood that Wentz's opposition to fatted calf was part of the problem. Also I seem to recall from my notes that he and his little friends were apprehended, and therefore pose no real threat." And what the hell, this is not like Spencer. He is cunning, he is diplomatic, he is inscrutable; he is, in short, the attorney from hell. Or, at least, he holidays there. Interrupting a client like this is not like him at _all_.

There's a moment of silence, before Beckett leans back, pursing his mouth thoughtfully, one hand resting on the pommel of the cane he still has braced against the carpet. "Well, of course, we couldn't hold them," he says. "Apparently, their human rights were being infringed." He sneers ever so slightly. Spencer blinks against the building pressure at his temples, and then, as suddenly as it arrived, the pain falls away.

"Hmm," says Beckett, and says over his shoulder to one of his behatted bodyguards, "Mike, dear heart, could you ask Brendon to join us? I'd like him to look into something for me. I hope you'll excuse the delay," he says to Spencer. "I find Brendon to be remarkably insightful at times."

"Of course," Spencer agrees, meaninglessly, and sips from the glass of water before him. His eyes are still a little blurry. Goddamn tension headache, he thinks sourly, it couldn't have waited? A couple of minutes pass in which everyone in the room considers everyone else, silently, speculatively, not wanting to give anything away, and then a sharp, dark boy, dressed in the familiar suit and bowler of Beckett's associates, slinks in, flanked by Mike. The newcomer is pale as paper with a red, red mouth, and eyes like holes in snow. Beckett doesn't even turn his head to watch Brendon's approach, but Brendon goes directly to his side.

"Brendon," Beckett says, and the boy inclines his head respectfully. "This is Mr Smith, our new attorney and, I hope, our close, close friend." That red mouth curves in a sharp-fanged smile as Spencer stands and rounds the table to shake his hand, observe the empty forms of etiquette.

"I like close, close friends," Brendon says, and smiles at Spencer with bloodthirsty cheerfulness as his cold fingers slip almost carelessly over the pulse in Spencer's wrist. "It makes them easier to stab in the back." Spencer grins at this, and looks up, and the headache slams back against his skull like a hydraulic press. He tries to control his breathing, but it's difficult to think past this relentless, thudding pain.

"Gently, my heart," he hears Beckett say as though from a distance. "Mr Smith is not a piñata."

The familiar wellspring of rage that has fueled Spencer for years surges up, and gives him just enough strength, just enough control, to drag his eyes away from the depthless black gaze in front of him. It's a struggle to even move his head; he's fairly sure that his vertebrae grate almost as much as his voice when he says with an effort, "Mr Beckett, are you trying to hypnotise me?"

"In point of fact, Mr Smith, and for the sake of clarity," says Beckett, leaning back and steepling his fingers, "I'm trying to _have_ you hypnotised." His tone is so bored that it lights the touchpaper on Spencer's temper, never far from the surface anyway. He refuses to have his head fucked with again, he thinks disjointedly; no, never again. That old anger winds him up like clockwork, and he strikes with the same inevitability, channeling everything into a short punch that connects with Brendon's jaw, breaking that flat, predatory gaze and lifting the pain in his head as swiftly as a snapping wire.

"Semantics," Spencer snarls at Beckett, as he nurses his bruised knuckles and his rage.

"Any kind of antics, Spencer," says Beckett, smiling widely now and rolling the syllables of Spencer's name over his tongue like wine. "I'm game. I like the cut of your jib. And, of course, your pants."

"I prefer his style," Mike contributes from his position against the back wall, which allows him a clear sightline down the hushed hallway. He's ostensibly still watching for trouble, but he is grinning as Brendon climbs to his feet and stares malevolently at Spencer. "It lacks finesse, but I enjoy the enthusiasm." Spencer gets the impression that Mike is not entirely displeased with Brendon's comeuppance.

"What the fu- the hell was that?" Spencer snarls. "Do you have any idea what my bosses will do when I tell them that you tried to ramraid one of their employees' minds?"

Beckett shrugs casually, and then rearranges the drape of the fur stole across his shoulder. "Honestly? They'll probably just bill me an extra couple of hours. Let's not be coy here, Spencer." He leans forward, with a small smile on his face. "I could rip your head off and poke around inside it with a fork, and your company wouldn't do anything more than send me the cleaning bill for the carpet. This is _my_ town now. They know it, and I know it, and it's in everyone's best interests that I remain in possession. It's a symbiotic relationship, if you like. It's the Circle of Life, and it moves us all."

Brendon whistles a brief phrase of music, but it's deceptive; his voice is Disney, but his eyes promise murder.

Beckett tilts his head enquiringly. "You have an extraordinarily resilient mind, Mr Smith. It's - interesting. Brendon?"

"Like fucking Teflon," Brendon confirms sullenly. "I couldn't get anything. It's like someone's been in there before. Someone-"

"Familiar," says Beckett. "Hmm." Spencer raises an eyebrow.

"Cryptic Scanners shit aside," he says, still shaking. "I'd like a fucking apology." He pauses, realises just how dangerous his tone is, and says, "I'd like a fucking apology, _please_."

"And you may have one, Mr Smith: an apology which is both fulsome and eloquent," Beckett says, and points at him with the silver pommel of his cane in punctuation. "But you must understand, I had to know what you want, what you need. In short, what I can do to ensure your commitment to us. To me."

"I work for you. I'm your lawyer," says Spencer, shortly. "You have nothing I want or need beyond your case and a contract with this company. And as it stands, your case is bullshit; what you really want to know is whether I'm going to help you reinforce your power legally, and set a precedent for vampire feudalism. And the answer's yes, I will."

"And turn against your own kind?"

"Even I'm not sure what kind I am, Mr Beckett. But I suspect that it's the kind that _wins_."

"Interesting," says Beckett thoughtfully, and they finally, finally get down to business.

* * *

They wrap it up around four in the morning, and while the vampires still appear bright-eyed and restless, the humans, Spencer included, are clenching their jaws against yawns. It's been a long night, Spencer thinks wryly, even without the attempted psychic B and E, and he can't even look forward to going home because his newly acquired penthouse is alien and empty and strangely resentful of his presence. And, he realises, it is also completely devoid of anything to eat because he'd been so busy getting up to speed on the Beckett case, he hadn't had time to order food or find the nearest convenience store. There's very little chance of hunting or gathering something edible before eight o'clock tomorrow morning which is the very latest he can roll into the office, even in his exalted position as boss. Mother _fucker_. His stomach chooses that moment to betray him, and gurgles so loudly that his digestive system sounds like backed-up plumbing. Spencer smiles tightly at Beckett who has raised an eyebrow at him.

"My body used to make noises like that," William says, nostalgically. "When I was human. Worst twenty years of my life."

"The human body's a fairly basic machine. Can't be helped," Spencer says, and rebuttons his jacket over his dully growling belly.

"Well, now, that's not entirely true," says Beckett, and rises to his feet so swiftly that it's almost impossible for the human eye to follow, and angles his hat lower over his eyes. Extending a hand to Spencer, he purrs, "I can help."

Spencer taps one finger against his belly, and stares thoughtfully at Beckett. "It's not that I don't appreciate the suggestion," he says, "but I like being human. I have no plans to give it up."

Beckett's laughter is wild and fine and dangerous, like bells ringing from far-off Faerie. "You are _precious_ , Mr Smith," he says eventually. "I was offering to buy you dinner, not make you into it."

"Oh," says Spencer, feeling more than a little foolish. "Right. I'm sorry; that was presumptuous."

"Only a little," Beckett says, and threads an arm through Spencer's before he draws him out of the door and down the hall towards the lobby. "You weren't entirely wrong, Spencer. I would very much like to make a meal of you." He bends his head confidentially to whisper in Spencer's ear, "Just not in the way you were thinking."

Spencer ducks his head to hide the amused smile that wants to break free; he can feel Beckett leering exaggeratedly beside him in the same way that he can feel his client's hair slide across his own stubble, like scratched silk.

"That would be highly unethical, Mr Beckett," he says, trying to sound prim. "Also? I'd ruin you for all other men."

Beckett sighs beside him in feigned regret. "I'm not sure whether I'm more impressed by your confidence or your strict moral code, Mr Smith. Both admirable qualities in an attorney, I'm sure, but a daunting obstacle in a man as beautiful as yourself."

The rapid clip of dress shoes behind them accelerates, and then one of the vampires brushes rudely past Spencer, pushing him more firmly into Beckett's grasp. He's unsurprised when the figure turns its head to shoot him a cold, reptilian glare, and he recognises the sullen eyes and lush mouth.

"Brendon," says Beckett, with an air of affectionate tolerance. "He gets jealous so easily, Mr Smith; you know how it is with middle children."

"Not really." Spencer scowls at the retreating Brendon, who's slinking over to the corner of the brightly-lit lobby, where another vampire is staring out of the black, blind window and playing with a- is that a fob watch? From behind, this vampire is tall and angular, and even his rear view indicates that he is unimpressed and bored. "I'm the eldest."

"Ah," says Beckett, "the responsible one."

"Always," Spencer agrees. "Unfortunately."

"Well, let us cast aside dull care for one night, Spencer, and regale ourselves with delicacies from exotic countries. Or, at least, pizza. Let us go then, you and I," William disclaims. "Etcetera, etcetera. How does it go again?"

"When the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherised upon a table," contributes a monotone voice from the corner that Brendon had headed for.

"Of course, how could I forget the etherised patient?" murmurs Beckett. "Thank you. Spencer, I don't believe you've met Brendon's childe-"

"Ryan Ross," Spencer says, numbly.

"Hello, Spencer," says Ryan. 

* * *

Geppetto's isn't the kind of restaurant Spencer had expected when Beckett suggested dinner. For a start, there's garlic everywhere; the miniscule bar towards the back is practically a trellis for strings of the papery heads, and the air is thick and warm with the scent of puttanesca and rough, red wine. Every small table in the place is illuminated by lamps in the shape of notable Italian antiquities or buildings: a small and serene plastic reproduction of Michaelangelo's David lights up Beckett's table. Spencer tries not to look at it too often; he's not sure whether the proportions are off, or the bulb is just really unfortunately situated. He taps his fingers restlessly on the table as they wait for his food to be brought to the table. Opposite him, Beckett lounges elegantly, a white hand curling around the stem of the wineglass. Towards the front of the restaurant, in front of the wide, glass window emblazoned with scarlet and gold lettering, Mike and a select few of the Dandies are sitting at a separate table; they'd swaggered in earlier, commandeered several tables, and then merely watched arrogantly as every other patron had suddenly remembered that they had business elsewhere. The whole restaurant is theirs now, but they're still watching all the exits hawkishly as they laugh and snap and snarl at each other. Mike and one of his confederates, Tom, had been through the kitchen like a whirlwind previously, checking faces and staff rotas, and Spencer had been reminded that for all Beckett's power, there's still a small group out there that want him dead. Spencer wonders whether it's business or pleasure for Wentz and his merry band of hopeless misfits. Brendon and Ryan are at the front table as well, and every time Spencer's eyes flicker past Beckett, he sees Ryan's pale face in the half-light of the restaurant. He doesn't think it's a coincidence.

He drags his gaze away from the front table again; Brendon has just slid a hand round the back of Ryan's neck, and flashed a challenging glance in Spencer's direction. Ryan hadn't even looked in his direction. Spencer feels a little sick and a lot angry.

"It's a little late, perhaps," says Beckett, and raises his glass to Spencer. The wine trembles and gleams like blood in the shifting light. "But welcome to Chicago, Spencer Smith."

"Thank you," Spencer says, automatically, and takes a sip of his own wine. It blooms warmly in his empty stomach, and even half a glass has an alcoholic lassitude seeping into his bones. Dangerous territory, he thinks, and puts his glass down decisively.

"You made quite a name for yourself in Los Angeles," says Beckett, idly. "Mr Vernon tells me that I couldn't ask for a more cold-hearted, amoral, and manipulative son of a bitch than yourself."

Spencer inclines his head, and murmurs mendaciously, "Mr Vernon is too kind."

"I believe he went so far as to use the word diabolical." Beckett smiles widely. "You must have impressed him. And you've only been there for-?"

"Three years," Spencer says, and his gaze drifts to the front of the restaurant again.

Ryan is looking back at him; his face as stony and inscrutable as ever. Spencer used to be able to read it regardless, and the fact that he can't anymore reminds him of the months of crippling, soundless grief he'd endured after Ryan had left, had disappeared from the face of the earth. Spencer hadn't just thought Ryan was dead, he'd _known_ it, because how could Ryan be alive and not at least contact him, how could they stop being part of each other? How could they survive apart? It sobers Spencer to realise that his grief-stricken teenage hyperbole might have had some basis in truth; it doesn't look like either of them have ended up where they'd expected when they'd whispered in Spencer's bedroom years ago about having a band, about touring, about getting out.

"You grew up in Vegas?" he hears Beckett says in the distance, and nods sharply, ripping his eyes away from the front table to examine his wineglass in obsessive detail.

"Is that where you met our Mr Ross?" says Beckett sympathetically, and Spencer blinks and nods again, before he catches the manipulative tone in Beckett's voice that says _I'm on your side, you can tell me everything_.

He curls his tapping fingers into a fist, and looks expressionlessly at Beckett over the table. "We went to school together. He left. There's nothing more to it than that."

"That doesn't seem to be what Brendon thinks," Beckett says, slyly, and it's true that when Spencer looks automatically in his direction, Brendon is scowling at him, and talking, low-voiced and fierce to Ryan, his hand still curved possessively around the nape of Ryan's neck. Ryan's head is bent, almost subserviently, to catch whatever vitriol his sire is spilling into his ear.

Spencer shrugs, and has never been so glad for the stone-faced demeanour he's developed through three years of the employee assessments, meetings, and flayings that make up Wolfram and Hart's staff review process, and says, maliciously, "Brendon gets jealous so easily, Mr Beckett. You know how middle children are." That dangerous laughter of Beckett's peals out again, and Mike looks over, smiling, before he says something to Brendon, distracting him and breaking his death-glare. In the absence of Brendon's attention, Ryan's eyes flicker up to look thoughtfully at Spencer. He pretends not to notice, and turns back to Beckett.

"Nothing more?" says Beckett.

"Nothing at all," says Spencer, firmly, and doesn't look at Ryan for the rest of the night. And it's true. Ryan Ross might be walking around and quoting poetry and wearing clothes as ridiculous as he did when Spencer knew him, but he's dead. Spencer would do well to remember that. 

* * *

For the next two weeks, Spencer turns the office on its head. It's not just to expunge the memory of Ryan from his head, he tells himself firmly, his staff need to recognise his authority anyway, and if they're potentially going to expedite the legal recognition of the first vampire fiefdom in America, and handle its affairs, he wants the office in razor-sharp condition. It takes three meetings about morale, more than a few sternly worded memoes, two contract terminations, and Spencer reinforcing his views about respect and loyalty by jamming an athame he normally uses as a letter opener through Drury's hand and into the boardroom table, and leaving him there, weeping and cursing weakly, for the rest of the day, but Spencer thinks the message is finally getting through. His staff start jumping before he can even tell them how high. It's good to be king, he reflects, when everything settles down and they start racking up the victories: a few high-profile politicians cleared of all wrongdoing despite the wealth of evidence that they were both corrupt and stupid; an alderman's son cleared of vehicular manslaughter even though the line of coke he'd been trying to snort off the dashboard whilst driving was fully documented; souls are bartered and brokered, and blood is spilled, and business is good.

Spencer's doing fine. Better than fine. He doesn't think about Ryan at all. And why should he, he reasons internally, as he stands in front of a jury, sharply-suited and carefully groomed, and explains to them why Mr Parker couldn't have killed all those elementary school kids; there's no reason for him to see Ryan ever again. Spencer and Beckett have a purely professional relationship which precludes the need for further socialising, and Chicago is a big city. Chances are he's not going to see Ryan again, and things will be exactly the same as they were before Ryan Ross condescended to return from the dead, and that's the way things should be. He finally gets back to his penthouse that night, Mr Parker having been cleared of all charges when the items of bloodstained children's clothing found in his basement mysteriously disappeared from police evidence, fully prepared to self-medicate himself with Scotch until he can sleep, and then go back into the office tomorrow and pull rabbits out of his ass again. He snorts as he sets down his briefcase in the hallway, and wanders into the living room that looks out over Chicago, the skyline as fragile and blue-black as carbon paper, the city lights fading and puncturing the night sky. Mixed metaphors again, he thinks, Ryan would-

He stops himself, and reaches for the decanter of Glenlivet, one of the few items he's bothered to unpack, and almost drops it when a voice says in the darkness, "The view is spectacular, Spencer, but your security? Not so much."

He takes several deep and deliberate breaths, but it's more to stop himself from swearing viciously at the intruder than to calm his racing heart. When he thinks he has himself under control enough to not just start letting loose with his fists and his worst language, he switches on the light, and stares coldly at Ryan, who is sitting preternaturally still on _his_ goddamn couch.

"How the fuck did you get in here, Ross?"

Ryan shrugs. "Like I said, your security is ineffectual. And by ineffectual, I mean unconscious."

Spencer sneers. "Don't tell me you knocked him out." He runs his gaze up and down Ryan's bony frame offensively; Ryan's still as thin as he'd been when they were growing up. "You haven't got the physique."

Ryan's eyes darken as he says, "No, I have the _skill_. Did you think that vampirism only came with a pair of fangs and a secret decoder ring? Brendon always thought I'd inherited my psi aptitude from him, but now he's starting to think that it might just have been latent."

"Speaking of Brendon and the latent," says Spencer, and Jesus, he needs to rein himself in and quickly, but it's been a long two weeks. Fuck it, it's been a long eleven years, and the venom and the hurt is still running too close to the surface, no matter what he's been telling himself. "Does your boyfriend know you're here?"

Ryan's fingers begin to drum against the shining leather arm of Spencer's couch, and he looks fractionally put-out. "It's been eleven years since we last saw each other, Spencer, and ten and a half since I was made into a card-carrying member of the undead; I would think that my sexuality would be the least of your problems with this."

"I don't have any problems," Spencer lies, hating himself and Ryan almost equally. "I'm just concerned that your sire, who is more than a little bugfuck from what I've seen, is going to misread your visit."

"Relax, Spencer. I have no designs on your virtue." Ryan's voice is colder than a nuclear winter. "William sent me."

Spencer sloshes whisky into one of the glasses on the bar, and throws it down his throat. "Office hours are eight in the morning till ten at night, and I can be contacted by telephone at all times." Ryan gaze flickers as Spencer pours himself another drink, and he's not above using that against him. He extends the decanter towards Ryan, swilling the liquor around until the scent of peat and alcohol catches on the air. "I'm sorry; I'm being rude. Can I offer you a drink?"

Eyes cold, Ryan uncurls himself from the couch like a snake. Spencer waits, confident that this reminder of Ryan's father and the stench of alcohol that had always been a given and a warning in the Ross household would drive his former best friend away, but Ryan is fast. He's very fucking fast, and Spencer keeps forgetting he's a killer, and he's not going to make that mistake again, because Ryan has him pinned against the wall with one negligent hand at his throat in the time it takes for Spencer to drop the decanter in shock. Its soft, muffled thud on the carpet comes a second after Spencer's much less gentle collision with his living room wall, and between the impact and Ryan's ruthless grasp on his windpipe, he's struggling for breath.

"You think you're the only one who's not happy with this turn of events, Spencer?" Ryan breathes into his ear, pressed as close as a lover against him. "Both my sire and the Master of the whole fucking city have had some rather pointed questions about you, and our previous relationship."

"What did you tell them?" chokes Spencer. He feels rather than sees Ryan's shrug.

"What's there to tell?" says Ryan. "We knew each other once. Regardless, William and Brendon are both rather interested in you."

"Why?" If Spencer moves his head, pressing into the grip at his throat, he can turn his nose into Ryan's hair. It's been over a decade, but Ryan is frozen for the rest of time at the age of nineteen, and his hair is still heavy and silky, and smells faintly sweet and dusty like hay. There's a brief moment of hesitation, and when Ryan speaks again, Spencer would almost swear that he sounds uncomfortable.

"Because neither of them could get into your head. They think I might have- had something to do with that."

" _What_?" Spencer straightarms Ryan off him, and briefly wonders that Ryan lets him. Once Ryan is far enough away, Spencer tilts his head sharply to one side until the tension cracks out of it, and says with icy calm, "What do you mean, you might have had something to do with that?"

Ryan leans a non-existent hip against the bar and mimics Spencer's stance. "William is inclined to believe," he says, and fixes his eyes on the bland watercolour print on the wall slightly above Spencer, "that the psychic talents I've developed since I was turned may have already been present. He is likewise inclined to believe that since you were the person to whom I was most consistently in proximity, you may have been - affected."

"Affected how, Ryan?" says Spencer, viciously. "Because the only lasting effect you've had on me has been the colossal mindfuck-" His voice trails off.

Without even looking at him, Ryan purses his lips and nods. "Yeah," he says, flatly.

"You mindfucked me," says Spencer, disbelievingly.

"I didn't mean to," Ryan says. "I didn't even know our minds were connected."

Spencer laughs mirthlessly. "Oh, this just gets better and better. You're telling me that our minds were fucking bonded?"

Ryan doesn't say anything. The hideous watercolour that came with the apartment seems to be fascinating him.

"Is there anything else you'd like to spring on me?" says Spencer. "You know, apart from the psychic fucking wound you gave me that made my psyche close itself off ten years ago?"

"It's not entirely closed off," says Ryan. "Listen, if two vampires, one of whom is the Prince of Chicago and who is, incidentally, paying the large part of my salary in billing, can't get inside my head, then who the fuck can?"

Clearing his throat, Ryan says, _Me_. But his mouth doesn't move.

"Oh, no," says Spencer flatly, and very definitely out loud. "Just - fucking no. Get out of my head, Ross, and then get the fuck out of my apartment and my _life_."

"I can't do that," says Ryan.

"Oh, you can," Spencer says venomously. "You can, and you will. This is a violation of the attorney-client privilege."

"Yeah?" says Ryan. "Oh hey, why don't you go cry to your bosses that you don't want to work for Beckett anymore because somebody knows what you're thinking?"

"Bonding someone against their will is a infringement of my bosses' standard contracts," counters Spencer.

"You're not bonded," Ryan sniffs, sounding more like the Ryan Spencer had grown up with. "You're imprinted."

"I'm-" Spencer gropes for words, horrified. "Like a duckling," Ryan says, with a little too much enjoyment.

"Oh, fuck you," says Spencer, exasperated. "Break it."

 _Can't_ , says Ryan.

"Can't or won't?" says Spencer, and shudders. "And stop doing that. You're fucking up my brainvoice."

Ryan ducks his head and smiles, and Spencer feels his breath catch. Jesus, Ryan fucking Ross. He just - regardless of everything, Spencer just wants to put his hands on him to make sure he's real.

"Brainvoice, Spence?" says Ryan, and adds softly, "You can, you know."

"What?" Spencer says, bewildered.

"Put your hands on me." And Ryan is suddenly pressed against him again, so close that the buckle on his belt digs into Spencer's stomach, and something else digs into Spencer's hip.

Closing his eyes, Spencer feels blood rush to his face and also parts south, and just manages to croak out, "I thought you didn't have any designs on my virtue?"

"I lied," says Ryan, and presses a mouth as cool and sweet as ice-cream to Spencer's, and Spencer's eyes slide close. They trade slow, damp, exploratory kisses for a couple of minutes, the way they had for all of five minutes when Spencer was thirteen and Ryan fourteen, just before they'd both cracked up and went off to play Sonic the Hedgehog, but this? This isn't a joke. Whatever this is, it's dangerously serious, and as if in emphasis, one of Ryan's fangs scratches Spencer's swollen lower lip, and the copper-sharp scent and taste of blood corrupts the kiss. Ryan makes a noise at the back of his throat, and his mouth is abruptly voracious and demanding. All Spencer can do is hold on and kiss back, pouring all of his relief and rage and love into it, hands mapping out the lines and existence of Ryan's thin back. Ryan's hands scrabble frantically at Spencer's leather belt and his zipper, before he hisses in exasperation, curls his long fingers around the material and _rips_. Spencer yelps into his mouth, half in horrified shock, half in amusement, and then moans as Ryan gets a hand on his cock.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," he mutters, and manages to hook one leg round Ryan's waist, and has an inappropriate moment of panic that he's going to fucking break Ryan in half or something, before Ryan takes his hand away from Spencer's dick. He doesn't even have time to whimper his displeasure - his cock! Ryan's hand! Two great tastes! - before Ryan grabs his ass and fucking lifts. Supporting Spencer's full weight effortlessly, he pushes Spencer against the wall again and grinds up against him desperately.

"Nnngh," says Spencer, and bites at Ryan's lip. "Oh, Christ."

"Yeah," says Ryan, and kisses him again, licking blood off his lip.

"Ryan, Ryan, Ryan," Spencer gasps breathlessly, gets a hand into Ryan's hair, and yanks.

"What?" snarls Ryan, pulled away from Spencer's mouth, his eyes black and his mouth red. Spencer laughs in euphoria, and says, " _Harder_."

Grinning, Ryan says softly, still staring at Spencer's mouth, "Are ducklings always this demanding?"

"I'm a very high-maintenance duckling," says Spencer, and rolls his hips wantonly. A growl rumbles in Ryan's chest, and it's shockingly arousing.

"Come on," urges Spencer, and okay, it's been a few months since he last got laid, but he's been without for longer, and not been this frantic, this desperate. "Ryan!"

 _Spencer_ , Ryan's voice says raggedly in his head, and Spencer jerks. It's almost too intimate, more intimate than mere fucking: Ryan's eyes wide and dark and bright staring at him; his voice curling and rubbing through Spencer's brain; and his hips grinding and jerking like a fucking piston; and his dark head descending to the crook of Spencer's neck; and the sharp, glorious pain as he bites down. Spencer lets his head fall back so that he's staring blindly at the ceiling, and all he can hear are the fierce sounds of satisfaction and greed inside and outside his mind as Ryan feeds and pushes and praises him, and Spencer fucking keens as he comes, and Ryan isn't far behind him, jerking hard against him and biting down harder, tearing into muscle and sharpening their mutual orgasm with a bright, razor-edge pain that just pushes them higher. It's quiet afterwards except for the sounds of Ryan licking lazily at the blood that's trickling in a sluggish stream down Spencer's neck.

"Fuck," Spencer slurs eventually.

"I know, right?" agrees Ryan. "I should come back from the dead more often."

"Oh, fuck you," says Spencer, and pushes at his shoulder, even though he has his doubts that his legs will hold him. "Let me down."

There's a huffy sigh from Spencer's neck, and he's almost tempted to grin because that's definitely the Ryan he knew back in Vegas. "Are you sure?" Ryan says, muffled, from the crook of his neck, and his tongue flickers along Spencer's skin.

Spencer snorts. "Yes, I'm sure. For a start, I just lost a substantial amount of blood so I'd like to drink some juice, and order some pizza. And also," he grimaces, "change my pants."

"Huh," Ryan says thoughtfully, and lowers him to the ground. He's a little wobbly, but it's a point of pride for Spencer that he manages to make it over and collapse into the couch without reeling off to one side. "Do you want to-?" He stops, feeling more like a twelve year old girl than is right or appropriate for a soulless attorney who's just had sex with his vampiric former best friend.

Ryan's mouth turns up in a tiny smile, but he says, "I can't stay. Beckett's expecting me."

"Right," says Spencer, stiffly. "Got to report back on a successful mission, I expect."

The smile disappears as quickly as it'd appeared, and Ryan says with no expression at all, "Fucking you wasn't part of the brief."

"Okay."

"It wasn't."

"I said okay." Spencer struggles to hide his disillusionment, because seriously, what had he been expecting? That he and Ryan would be reunited, and it'd be them against the world again, like it used to be? Christ, his stupidity has reached new depths. Both of them have made different choices and compromises, negotiated different loyalties. The world doesn't work the way you imagined it did when you were young.

There's a heavy silence, before Spencer says, "What did Beckett want you to do then?"

His face eerily expressionless again, Ryan says, like he's reading lines from a script, "William said he's heard you're having trouble finding a competent telepath for your office. He knows of a reliable and discreet psi who's currently in need of a job, if you're interested."

"And this way, Beckett gets an inside line on Wolfram and Hart, right?" Spencer says, shrewdly.

Ryan shrugs, looking like a marionette that's had its strings cut. "I wouldn't know about that."

"Or should that be _another_ inside line?" says Spencer, watching Ryan closely.

"Calling me a whore, Spencer?" Ryan snaps back, his lips lifting over his fangs. They glint bone-white in the light, Spencer notes distantly, and thinks that Ryan must have licked every last drop of Spencer's blood off them.

"Actually, I was referring to the psychic bond, connection - thing," says Spencer, exhaustion and a strange sorrow crashing over him abruptly like a dark wave. "I don't think you're a whore. You're just not my Ryan anymore. I can't rely on you."

"You never could," Ryan says softly, and makes his way over to the door. He rearranges his clothing, pulls a scrap of paper out of his waistcoat pocket, and puts it down on the table by the door. "You'll find William's mindreader at this address. Just ask for Jon; they'll know who you mean." Pausing by the door, Ryan looks back with an unreadable expression. "And fire your security company. Not everyone who breaks into your apartment is going to have a problem with ravishing you and then just leaving."

"You don't have a problem with that either," Spencer points out, his eyelids heavy. "You've never had a problem leaving me."

 _I never had a choice_ , he thinks he hears Ryan say, but sleep descends on Spencer and the apartment door quietly closes.


End file.
